


Winter's Coming

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate universe, set before Lestrade's and John's appearance, in which Sherlock and Jim are together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter's Coming

**Author's Note:**

> Song is [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ThT0Ez9LroM). Listen if you'd like to set an atmosphere. Each section is a different verse.

There’s a thick silence in the flat, laying low around their feet like an uninvited fog as they shuffle from kitchen to sofa to desk, repeat. It makes them shiver more frequently than the cold wind outside that drags the falling snow diagonally across their window, and is much harder to talk about than the weather. Occasionally one will lift his head and there will be a tangle of eye contact from across the room, and they know they can’t ignore it any more. But Sherlock will always be the one to flutter his eyes closed and turn his head away, either to pat the cushion on the sofa, tap out something on his laptop or stir his cup of tea at the counter.

They’re both terrific with words and can usually escape deadly situations with their skilfully twisted tongues. But there’s something tender about the silence in the room that neither can bear to disturb. Jim thinks Sherlock finds it easy to turn his head away so smoothly. Sherlock can deduce that Jim is feeling the exact same tension as himself.

But of course, the fog has filled their flat for weeks, now, and they’ve started to grow accustomed to it. They’re learning the right things to say, the right direction to squirm in order to weasel out of the discomfort they’ve fallen into together.

“Your hair’s getting longer,” Jim tells Sherlock one afternoon, even though the dull sky outside suggests late evening. Sherlock looks up from his book to see Jim with a mug of coffee, not sitting at the dining table like he would normally be, not with his back turned away to shield from a cold shoulder. Instead standing, four feet away from the sofa, his eyes naturally wide and waiting for Sherlock to move over so he can fill the space next to him.

“Keeps my neck warm in winter,” Sherlock tells him, all the while moving closer to the arm rest and touching the nape of his neck with his fingers.

“Don’t pretend you grew it on purpose.” A pause. “It suits you.” 

Sherlock doesn’t think much of petty compliments, but when said with that Irish inflection, he doesn’t mind so much. He actually finds himself smiling when Jim leans over and kisses the skin on his neck just underneath the lobe of Sherlock’s ear, spreading his warm coffee-tinted breath against his cold, otherwise untouched skin. Smiling genuinely for the first time since their fog settled.

* * *

The fog follows them to bed at night, lingers around the bedposts and threatens to nip at their skin if they dare push through it and talk into their pillows. Sherlock still can’t figure out what’s wrong and it drives him insane, to the point of shaking on his side of the bed and fisting his fingers tightly in his pillow. He hasn’t had nightmares like this before, never before did he have a real reason to. He sees blood and the brutality of humankind nearly every day if he dares walk down the street, but there was never anything enough to haunt him in his sleep.

Then that Irish madman walked into his life and he’s suddenly had something to fear; something to lose.

Jim always mistakes the cause of the nightmares for something that he can fix, rather than something he’s caused. Sherlock will never push him away when he scoots closer and kisses his neck, he’ll never object when Jim runs his fingers through Sherlock’s growing hair. Because he does need the distraction, really, and it’s nicer for them to still be capable of putting their problems aside and fucking it all away for the night.

The thing that Sherlock can’t figure out, is if _nice_ is what he really needs right now.

Sherlock stays where he is and opens himself up for Jim to do what he likes. He shuts his eyes and digs his nails into Jim’s biceps, piercing the skin just shy of drawing blood. The favour will always be returned, Jim will always scratch, always intentionally at Sherlock’s forearms to break the healing tracks down his arms. It always sends Sherlock’s senses into a frenzy, reopens the desire he quenched earlier on in the evening and throwing his head back, inviting more possessive markings.

Jim rocks and scratches and bites all at once, and Sherlock briefly hates that he can hit the right spots without even trying.

When they’re left to lay in the aftermath, Sherlock stares at the ceiling and tries to find a name for the feeling of _incomplete_ that washes over him, every night. He’s spent and tired, but he also feels as if the fog is holding him down, blocking sections of his brain from working properly. The section that controls his mouth, to ask Jim if they’re alright. The section that controls his legs, to stand from bed and walk to his stash. The section that controls his arms, to give him the strength to clean up his needle and fulfil the emptiness that forces him to feel constantly between here and there.

The fog just holds him down and forces him to roll over, place a hand on Jim’s chest as his silent _thank you_ , even though he doesn’t know if he means it anymore. If he wasn’t surrounded by this heavy silence, his brain would allow him to deduce that the look in Jim’s eyes means he’s feeling the exact same way as Sherlock is. But it’s too thick, too heavy, and he has no choice but to close his eyes and try for sleep.

* * *

“We really can’t afford central London, you know,” Jim points out, as if it’s going to change Sherlock’s mind. There’s nothing to change his mind, now. After hours of itching and pacing and muttering, he’s finished packing their things and the twelve large boxes lay stacked in the sitting room between them. Jim sips from a Starbucks cup of coffee and watches the man in front of him, trying to figure out an alternative motive.

“I can afford it,” Sherlock assures him for the fourth time that day. He doesn’t blame Jim’s uncertainty; it’s not as if they’d really considered moving, or talked about it at all. 

But Sherlock needs to get rid of this itch, this skittishness that comes along with the fog in their sitting room and around their bedposts. If he was one for talking about his feelings then he’d tell Jim this, he’d try to convince him that they need a change to escape the ball and chain in this flat. But he’s not prepared to acknowledge it yet, so Jim will have to skip along and deal with it.

Sherlock can’t believe how fortunate he is that Jim hasn’t made any complaints yet.

It’s not as if they live in the most respectable of neighbourhoods, although it has been working well for them. Here, Sherlock can stay strung out for days on end without the suspicions of police. Here, Jim can deal the drugs they need to pay their rent and no one will bat an eyelid. 

Sherlock is convinced they can find solace in central London, and he’s honestly grateful that Jim isn’t fighting his judgment. Honestly, genuinely grateful.

“Is this really all the stuff we’ve got?” Jim asks after a moment, gesturing vaguely at the boxes with the hand holding his cup. Sherlock shrugs as Jim sits down on one of them, prodding the tape job and leaning over so he’s almost hanging upside down in order to read Sherlock’s messy scrawl on the side of the box.

“Books, CDs, towels,” Sherlock tells him. “You’re sitting on books, CDs and towels.”

Jim slowly sits up and sips at his coffee, his eyes remaining locked onto Sherlock’s as he does. “Where’s my stock?” he asks after a moment, casual and calm as if he’d inquired about the weather (importantly, the weather outside freezing those who walk through it, rather than the fog indoors that breaks the hearts of those who are forced to step into it).

“Folded with the towels,” Sherlock tells him easily, his mouth curling into a smile against his own will. Jim mirrors it, and Sherlock still doesn’t know why, but he lets it happen. He lets them battle the fog without needing to speak of it, or look at it, or acknowledge it. He lets Jim move closer so they can kiss, lets his guard down so he can feel comfortable with a smile, for once. And he lets them fall from where they’re perched on their boxes, dropping to the floor and becoming engulfed in the fog that’s ruled their lives for the past several weeks.

* * *

“Bloody frightful, i’nn’t?” Jim spits one evening, teeth chattering involuntarily as they stand out in the cold and freshly falling snow. Sherlock keeps his hands buried deep in his pockets, smiling to himself whenever he sees Jim shivering from the corner of his eye. Sherlock is shivering just as much, but at least he’s able to contain himself.

“It’s not that bad,” Sherlock responds, no longer watching the display in front of them. His eyes have fallen to where Jim is struggling with his lighter; fingers numb and fumbling, already growing sore from his failed attempts to light the cigarette in his mouth. Eventually, Sherlock has to take his hands from his pockets and do it for him, one hand cupped over the flame to keep it burning so Jim can inhale through the cigarette and help it along.

“Yeah, but,” he shrugs, squinting against the wind and gesturing wildly with one hand at the choir in the public street. “Who’d want to stand out here and sing in this weather? Look at them, I bet they do this just so they can boast to their friends about being in a bloody choir. Cultured pricks.”

Sherlock smiles again, the corners of his eyes squinting against his will as he leans down to pluck the cigarette from Jim’s lips. “I bet you sung in a choir when you were a child,” he comments between drags, his head now up towards the choir, but his eyes sneaking down to watch the man next to him.

“Exactly, so I know what it’s like,” Jim points out. “And gimme that, you’ve got a whole pack at home.”

Sherlock tries not to feel smug about the word _home_ so easily dropped into the sentence. They’ve lived here less than a week and Jim is already warming up to it. There was never a rivalry about the flat to begin with, but it still feels good to know he made the right choice in getting them to move.

“So,” he breathes, trying to catch the last of the nicotine on his tongue before being forced to hand the cigarette back. Instead he catches sight of the fog emitting from his breath, distracting him briefly as he struggles for the words to say. The fog still follows them, ruining moments like these, but all it takes is for Jim to reach a hand into Sherlock’s pocket to share warmth and tangle their fingers together, and the silence is lost to the harmonies of the choir.

“Do you know this one?” He ends up asking, glancing at Jim then up at the choir.

“Of course I know this one,” Jim huffs, frowning as he squeezes Sherlock’s hand and puffs on his cigarette. “Hark how the bells, sweet silver bells, all seem to say, throw cares away,” he sings, at first under his breath to prove a point, but he too catches sight of the fog oozing from his lips, and he begins to sing louder. Sherlock laughs at that, squeezing his hand in return as he joins Jim in carol.

* * *

His breath is heavy as he swings through the front door, the door of 221B creaking under his weight and snapping shut in the wind when his grip fumbles loose. He leans one shoulder against the wall of the foyer room as he digs around his pockets, searching past Jim’s cigarettes, his map of the underground and the folded pound notes, eventually pulling out his phone and headphones.

He sends a lingering glance up the stairs that lead to their flat, forcing himself to step forward as he threads his fingers through the tangled knots in his headphones, attempting to smooth them out so he can fall asleep with something loud blasting directly into his eardrums. The walk home passed by two different choir groups, and Sherlock can’t enjoy that without Jim. Not now.

His fingers twitch and he ends up dropping the tangled cord along with his phone, before letting himself drop down onto the bottom step. It takes a lot of energy to wrap an arm around the banister to hold himself up, leaning against the wood and shutting his eyes so he doesn’t have to catch sight of his reflection in the mirror on the wall opposite. It almost hurts to think that such a beautifully framed object should house such a wrecked reflection.

How will Jim reaction when he finds out Sherlock spent so much time out? It’s not the neighbourhood they used to live in, sure, but it’s still London, and they know the worst of what’s out there. With Jim being one of them, it’s hard to feign ignorance of what to expect on the streets at night.

Instead of lumbering up the stairs and waking Jim’s probable peaceful slumber, Sherlock stays on that step, clinging to the banister as if his life depends on it. He can feel the emptiness settling over him, threatening to drain the remaining colour from his cheeks, just like it had done before he left the house after dinner. He could feel it creeping through the windows, watching him and blocking his brain from working properly, and that’s why he had to get out. Walk, for as long as he could, as far away as he could, then meander back after midnight. Because the fog has followed him, it’s followed them both, and if he can lead it away from their flat, their _home_ , perhaps he can be free to love Jim without this unexplainable state of purgatory filling up the walls of their lives.

 _Love_ , Sherlock thinks, and tightens his grip around the banister.

* * *

The loud hissing of the shower spray drills into Sherlock’s head, distracts him from his train of thought and leaves him to play with his hair in front of the bathroom mirror. He’s sure he had something to do, some kind of medicine to take, but now he’s all the more interested in raking his fingers through his hair, standing it up at the back and combing it back down with his fingertips.

The shower curtain is tugged back and Jim leans out, toothbrush sticking out of his mouth as he watches Sherlock in front of the mirror. Sherlock, all skin and bone and bare skin, not even a towel to cover himself from the three sets of eyes in the room.

Sherlock’s reflection has been very critical of him lately.

“Look at the fuckin’ state of you,” Jim says after spitting the foam from his mouth into the drain of the shower. “I bet you’re high right now. You are, aren’t you? You never eat when you’re buzzed.”

He leaves the curtain open as he turns his eyes away from Sherlock and finishes brushing his teeth. The man at the mirror rubs his fingers under his eyes and prods at the dark circles smudging his pale skin.

“Not high,” he says quietly, unsure how else to respond.

Jim sets his toothbrush down, momentarily standing still under the scalding cascade of water. He knows Sherlock can see him in the reflection of the mirror, so he just waits, sure his attention will be captured soon enough. 

Soon enough, he realises that Sherlock is lost in his own world.

“D’you want to share for a bit?” He offers, tugging gently at the shower curtain to further his offer. “Plenty of room. Nice and warm.”

He licks his lips as he watches, waiting, his certainty slowly fading into the steam that fogs the mirror. When Sherlock’s reflection is barely visible, the man in question rubs his eyes and leans over the basin, muttering to himself, “Need to eat,” before walking briskly from the bathroom and leaving the door open behind him.

Jim forces his eyes open as he stands with his head up under the spray, not wanting to see anymore.

* * *

Christmas doesn’t normally feel like Christmas where Sherlock is. Christmas doesn’t normally feel like Christmas where Jim is. It’s been a long time since they experienced the warmth and cheer and family bonding which had been forced upon them as children in large families. They’ve been grateful to have Christmas their own way, without a tree, without expensive and irritating traditions.

It’s still difficult to escape that world, though. The world full of songs and pastries and gifts and cuddling, and with the carollers’ songs on the streets drifting through their windows, it’s harder to live without something if you know what you’re missing.

They’ve lit the fireplace, made two cups of coffees, and left the television on quietly in the background. But even that is drowned out by the singing and the bells and the chatter on the street. Apparently the city remains alive at this time of night on Christmas Eve.

The fire burns quietly, occasionally crackling around the wood it engulfs to keep their sitting room warm enough. Sherlock sits still on their sofa, fingers laced together as he watches the flames flicker and waver from a draft through the window. Jim stays curled up in an arm chair, hands wrapped around his mug as he watches Sherlock not watching him back.

“D’you think we’re alright?”

Sherlock pales, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the fireplace. It’s that recognition of the fog that has scared him so much, that he’s tried so hard to avoid, that Jim has just gone ahead and shouted about from behind a quiet, wavering voice. He inhales slowly as he thinks, because this is that tangled eye contact from across a room, this is their flat from their old neighbourhood, _this_ is the shaking grip Sherlock held on the banister of the first floor step.

 _Love_ , Sherlock thinks, and digs his fingernails into his own palms.

“We’re fine,” he answers back carefully, “Just going through a rough patch,” acknowledging the burning ice folding around their ankles. Jim’s feet are tucked up on his arm chair.

“Did you get me a present?” Jim asks this time, catching Sherlock off guard. He blinks, frowns, then turns to look at the man sitting across from him, seeing nothing but curious eyes half hidden behind an oversized mug.

“No,” Sherlock answers honestly, because Christmas is foolish and if he wants to buy Jim a present, he’ll do it when he wants.

“Damn,” Jim whispers, somehow smiling despite himself. Sherlock doesn’t smile back, but his frown eases out. He stares, tries to understand, but Jim stands and breaks his gaze. Tip toes through the fog, escapes to their upstairs bedroom to seek refuge in higher ground.

Sherlock falls asleep on the sofa, curled up around Jim’s favourite cushion.

* * *

He’s awoken with a start, warm lips contrasting his shaking body and the distinct scent of coffee biting into his skin. He blinks his eyes open to clear his focus and stares up at Jim, the man leaning over him with his lips pressed to Sherlock’s skin. He pulls away and drops a small rectangle in his lap, gift wrapped from a store, no doubt, lacking any further decoration or card.

“What’s this?”

“Christmas,” Jim replies sleepily, then turns to make his way to the kitchen. He drags his feet and kicks up the fog, and for a split second, Sherlock swears he can see it, twisting in the air to dissipate above their heads.

When it registers what Jim has said, Sherlock frowns down at the rectangle and begins to peel back the paper. He eventually gets to the present inside; a small book with a thick front and back cover, void of decoration aside from the word _Photos_ printed in script on the cover. Sherlock opens it up, begins to flick through, but it takes his tired, clogged up brain five pages to realise that every page is blank.

“What is it?” He asks again, looking up to see Jim making his way back over to him, cradling his large cup of coffee in his hands.

He carefully seats himself against the arm rest and holds the cup down, tilting it enough so Sherlock can sip before he starts to explain himself. “It’s a photo album,” he begins, simply enough. “But we don’t have any photos, so I thought it could still be nice to have. Give us a reason to take some photos, maybe.”

“But we don’t do anything worth taking photos of,” Sherlock points out. “We don’t holiday, we don’t -”

“Doesn’t have to be anything special,” Jim interrupts with a shrug as he sips his coffee and turns his head to look out through the frosted window. “Can just take photos. To remember. Average person’s memory is only 60% accurate, or something like that.”

Sherlock smiles a small smile. “Whatever makes you think we’re average people?”

Jim smiles back and moved to hold his mug in one hand so he can rest his other on Sherlock’s head. He stays quiet to pet him slowly, running his fingers through his curls, before he finally stands up and lets go. “Just a guess,” he tries, “No harm in pretending sometimes.”

As Jim leaves the room, presumably to shower or dress or at least find something warmer than a vest and loose pyjama pants, Sherlock huddles himself into the corner of the sofa and stares at the empty photo album in his lap. He dares run his hand over one of the many identical blank pages, tries his hardest to imagine a photo of them together, or at least imagine an opportunity to take one. 

His mind remains blank as he thinks of tomorrow, remains blank as he tries to remember yesterday.

He hears the shower begin to run and the curtain slide across its rail as Jim steps inside. Sherlock pulls himself to his feet, approaches one of the unpacked boxes by the front door and drops the album inside. He watches it land among his other albums, all alike in their lacking of any real photos. He’s sure Jim won’t mind it. He never really does.

After a final glance towards one of the snow-encrusted windows, Sherlock turns from the room to walk up their second set of stairs. He begins to unbutton his shirt on his way to the bathroom, to the deafening spray of scalding water, to Jim’s quiet humming of Christmas carols, and leaves the fog behind.


End file.
